The fragile of spirit need not apply
I'm sporting indifference like a crack whore who found her pimps' stash.
Can you die from not caring? Because how much less can I care that one of my sisters is a common streetwalker? That another one is poised to walk in her shoes? When will I surrender to the things that I can't change-as a good parent, I have carefully chosen the battles I will engage in with my children yet the demons inside me run rampant.
Everything consumes me. Do my shoes match my purse? Does the purse clash? The fuck with it, I leave the house with bedhead, green suede sandals and red knit purse, Cosmo unapologetically attempting to jump ship perhaps scandalized by Skinny Legs and All and the orange pseudo monogram wallet stained with mustard in its' first day of possession. Do I look like I don't need a man? Why do I dread wearing a skirt now that I have short hair, do I fear the look of trying too hard? Why do jeans translate as 'I don't give a damn' but a skirt (or perhaps a pink tank top)would say "Helloes, excuse the hair but please, please notice I am a woman." Maybe I'll wear one and not bother shaving my legs. "Got hair?" the love child of nothing and corporations titters until I boldly expose my seat of power to her. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean I don't have hair, bitch. Unfortunatly, I've been dragged kicking and screaming into the sanctum of the Beast in order to support society. The price of having ideals such as louse free hair and a warm bed. Plus, I really need that cerise, lace embellished tank top for $30 so a girl in Thailand can grow up to be a prostitute.
Roland the Gunslinger admonished himself to not forget the face of his father. My father admonishes me to talk to my sisters. I think in his hermitage he has forgotten his own face. It is one thing to love the mirrors at home and quite another to stand before the Red Sea and declare it doesn't exist. Perhaps he was shipwrecked one too many times in a previous life. I would that I could forget the face of my father. Then tequila and younger men wouldn't look so appetizing.
I'm not terribly sorry I've dragged you in the stew of my mind. You're just lucky I'm not a painter.
Can you die from not caring? Because how much less can I care that one of my sisters is a common streetwalker? That another one is poised to walk in her shoes? When will I surrender to the things that I can't change-as a good parent, I have carefully chosen the battles I will engage in with my children yet the demons inside me run rampant.
Everything consumes me. Do my shoes match my purse? Does the purse clash? The fuck with it, I leave the house with bedhead, green suede sandals and red knit purse, Cosmo unapologetically attempting to jump ship perhaps scandalized by Skinny Legs and All and the orange pseudo monogram wallet stained with mustard in its' first day of possession. Do I look like I don't need a man? Why do I dread wearing a skirt now that I have short hair, do I fear the look of trying too hard? Why do jeans translate as 'I don't give a damn' but a skirt (or perhaps a pink tank top)would say "Helloes, excuse the hair but please, please notice I am a woman." Maybe I'll wear one and not bother shaving my legs. "Got hair?" the love child of nothing and corporations titters until I boldly expose my seat of power to her. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean I don't have hair, bitch. Unfortunatly, I've been dragged kicking and screaming into the sanctum of the Beast in order to support society. The price of having ideals such as louse free hair and a warm bed. Plus, I really need that cerise, lace embellished tank top for $30 so a girl in Thailand can grow up to be a prostitute.
Roland the Gunslinger admonished himself to not forget the face of his father. My father admonishes me to talk to my sisters. I think in his hermitage he has forgotten his own face. It is one thing to love the mirrors at home and quite another to stand before the Red Sea and declare it doesn't exist. Perhaps he was shipwrecked one too many times in a previous life. I would that I could forget the face of my father. Then tequila and younger men wouldn't look so appetizing.
I'm not terribly sorry I've dragged you in the stew of my mind. You're just lucky I'm not a painter.